White Clerics, Black Magic
by Lady Crysania Majere
Summary: OMG! I can't believe I put up an earlier chapter. I feel like such a fool. Anyway, in this chapter Crysania finally meets Raistlin. *YAY* And please R/R
1. Default Chapter

A/N: I just wanted to sat this is my first fic and tell me if it sucks so I can get rid of it

A/N: I just wanted to sat this is my first fic and tell me if it sucks so I can get rid of it. Um... read, review, read what I said about reviewing in my biography thing. Am...Review?

~Lady Crysania Majere

**Reunion******

A dark figure clad in black huddled in an arched doorframe, his attire blending faultlessly with the shadows that seemed to cling to his hooded outline. Outside rain fell, splashing heavily on the pavestones, cleaning the streets of their usual coat of grime, dust and filth.

The arch provided minimal protection against the storm and soon the man was drenched, a cough wracked his somewhat frail body, causing him to double over in pain. His only option now was to find some inn or another, and in this weather that would be like trying to find an item in one of a kenders pouches, for someone without magic. Almost inaudibly he whispered words of his arcane art. Not extremely powerful words mind you, the words were that of a simple illusion spell, one that, 20 years ago, the most ignorant of mages could've seen through. But this as not 20 years ago. Now the gods of magic had left the world along with all the other gods-* save Takhisis who stayed, see Dragons of the Lost Star *-and even the most powerful of mages would not recognize him through the undemanding spell. His thin lips curled, as he stood in this downpour all the other mages in Krynn were being sapped by the undead of The Art. He knew why, Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, had every good reason to strip the magi of there magic, she was afraid of it. She had seen that power in the hands of a mortal could lead to her demise. So, she was taking the power, the magic, the Art, from every magical being (including her own dragons) not because she needed it, oh no, but because she was afraid of it. Afraid of him. It mattered little. The pathetic spirits could not come close enough as to brush a cobwebby hand across his long black robes much less get close enough to sap him, they were sent back to their Queen in failure, and often with a fewer number than they had had to begin with. He ended his chant and in the place of a his tall, black clad, sinewy mage leaning on a ebony staff was a smaller, tanner, slightly more muscular man who was wearing light colors and wielding a stout, oak, walking stick. The mage/merchant smirked, a sight both startling and unbecoming on his bronzed face. Now the 'merchant' lifted the oak stick before him and started the transportation spell. 

**_A/N: I shall now pause my narrative to give those not familiar with the ways of the magi a brief description of the spell. The enchantment is fairly simple to the experienced mage it was quite common before the gods departure but now can be used by seemingly no one save our black robed companion. The spell is used by simply pronouncing a long sting of words in the language of magic (be sure to get your ai's and oa's right), having enough power, and concentrating hard on the place that is to be your destination. In this our dear friend faulted._**

He whispered the words of magic and felt familiar elation fill his soul, followed by a wave of giddy delight. He forced his thoughts to an inn he had seen some two, three miles down the road. It had been a shabby place, but today he had expended too much of his magic on banishing the dead and on many other different trifles, to go more than 5 to 10 miles by ways of magic. Not to mention that the long walk in the rain had wreaked havoc on his already frail physical body. All in all he would be happy to get in out of the rainstorm to refuge in a place dry and warm, no matter how shabby or flea-ridden it could be. As he was finishing up the spell however, unbidden thoughts of the warm clean rooms in the Inn in Solace came to mind, franticly he pushed them away. A trip like that would be costly indeed; most likely it would result in at least a week in a coma and another week sick in bed, and though he had both steel and time for such meanderings he felt that he would deeply appreciate if he could avoid the whole situation. The images continued to surface in his mind however and before he could stop the flow of pictures he felt himself dematerializing. Next thing he saw before he collapsed was the near empty lobby of the Inn of the Last Home and then all was enveloped in an inky blackness.

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People of all races gathered at the inn to mourn the death of the hero of the lance, Caramon Majere. Hordes of humans, dwarves (mostly hill but three or four mountain.), kender (who were greeted jovially and later forcefully extracted when their pouches began to drag to heavily along the ground), and even a small batch of elves stayed at the inn to swap stories about the hero. Needless to say the inn was packed. When all rooms (save those of staff and family) were full, people would collapse on to the hearth and, for the price of one steel, would be provided with blanket, pillow, and a cup of hot coco. It was only at 3:47 A.M. that most of the inn settled down for the night. Only Laura and two bickering dwarves (one hill, one mountain) were not secure in the land of dreams. Laura's thoughts were scattered everywhere, for one second her brain might be doing the sums for today's earnings and in the next second she would mull over the thoughts of the funny kender who insisted that he was, in fact, the original Tasslehoff Burrfoot and not one of his many namesakes. She laughed silently at the image of the kenders tiny face scrunched up in a look' pleading her to believe him. He put on quite an act and if it weren't for the utter absurdity of what he was claiming, she would have believed him, her father obviously had. That brought her back to her father. Caramon Majere's death had been a confusing affair. Not the death itself but more the events that heralded it. The strange and heavy storm plus the arrival of the kender- who had spouted out stories of Caramon's funeral before the event had transpired, and then proceeded to give the farewell speech before the 'deceased' himself- were both foreboding- well perhaps not the kender-, not to mention what Caramon had said of her uncle.... She was interrupted from her reverie by a sharp knocking on the inns door. Sighing she got up, ready to tell of the midnight wanderer and then go get some sleep herself, and strode to the inns door, stooping she unlatched the bolt and proceeded to swing open the door. 

"Laura"

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A hazy figure strolled down the road; large droplets of rain running down her white mantle, then sliding down her pale face. Wet hair clung to her neck and shoulders, while her drenched cape and robes hugged her curves as their waterlogged weight hindered her already slow amble. She walked (even in the down pour) with movements that distinguished her as a person of power and dignity yet also of kindness; for her nose was turned slightly up, her back was tall and straight, her shoulders resolute. Yet her gait was graceful and a smile played about her rosy lips. Her eyes, as the scanned the landscape about, held the wonder of a child and she looked upon the world around her as if seeing it for the first in a long, long time. Those gray eyes also showed both immeasurable grief and happiness as they blinked back both the heavens crystal rain and her own salty tears. 

After several more minutes of her wandering, she stopped at the foot of a huge valley wood tree, and a spiraling staircase that lead up its enormous trunk. Swiftly, her footfalls silent in the falling rain, up she crept the winding flight of steps pausing only when she stood before the door to the inn of the last home. Deftly she reached out her hand and knocked thrice upon the door. Had her hearing not evolved through her years in darkness, knowing only through sound, touch, smell, and taste, she would not have head the sigh of irritation though the oak door and falling rain. But she had been through the shadows created through her own lack of sight and she heard it, a soft exclamation of breath and words mumbled softly and irritably, then footsteps. To light to be of a man, but a pattern she recognized, then the soft *click* of a bolt coming out of a lock and then the great door swung open and she was greeted by the face of a scowling woman. A woman she had never before seen but had met a good number of times, "Laura," she breathed, her voice muffled by her dripping hood. The frowning face took on a slightly puzzled expression. 

"Scuse me," she questioned, a slightly puzzled note in her voice, squinting intently at the hooded figure, "do I know you?" The white robed woman only took a step forward and drew back her hood. Laura continued to squint for another two or three seconds when a look of recognition and astonishment crossed her slightly freckly face. "Lady Crysania!" came her loud exclamation, "What on earth happened to you?!.... You're...well...you're younger!" a brief silence and Crysania nodded her head.

"How?" Laura inquired, scrutinizing her guest. She had seen the Reverend Daughter many times in her life and though she admitted that Crysania seemed not to age rapidly she was certain the lady did not decrease in age. She noted lady Crysania staring at her with alert gray eyes, she reeled her thoughts back in and did a small double take. The lady was blind. How could a sightless woman stare at her? No matter what her powers. Peering back more intently Laura noted that the lady's eyes were, at least now, clear and aware, whatever had happened to make her younger had also given her back her sight. Laura was utterly and completely perplexed, and in her confusion her befuddled wits noted that Crysania was soaked. Not knowing what else to do she stepped back and invited Lady Crysania of Tarsis inside.

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Crysania sat back in a wooden chair beside the glowing fire, she was wearing the white blouse and long white pants Laura had provided, though the gods were gone she still preferred the white garments of her god, Paladine, and white skirts are often ruined when one runs and inn, so slacks it would be. Besides, she figured, her own clothes would dry before anyone was up to see her. Now dry and moderately warm, sitting across from what looked to be a very impatient Laura, she reclined and began to tell her story.

"On the night of the mammoth storm we had about three weeks ago I was inside the temple passing out food and blankets, helping with the city's people when a young child came in, saying her kitten was stuck up a tree and would I come fetch it for her? The little girl had no idea that I was blind or who I was but she had such faith that I, a Reverend Daughter of Paladine, could save her kitten how could I refuse? All life is sacred to those of our order. Without thinking I let myself be lead out in to the hail and rain to a tall maple will many branches. It was when I placed my hand on the great tree's trunk that I realized what folly it would be for a blind woman to climb a tree during a lighting storm. I almost laughed then, but hearing the girls pleas in my mind reason was not such a big issue. I began to climb." Lost in her own memories Crysania shrugged her shoulders ad continued, "By who knows what miracle I reached the cat without incident, save two bruises and a slip on one of the lower boughs, getting the cat was an easy matter for the poor feline was making a racket in the storm and had no objection what so ever as to being pulled down from her perch. On the way down I slipped on some wet moss, dropping the kitten, lucky for it the small lass was waiting under the tree and caught cat as she feel calling up thanks all the way from the ground. It was worth it then, so I was less careful on my way down. It would not have mattered if I was careful or not. Lightning struck the maple. I fell then and remembered not hitting the ground, for when the bolt struck I saw of vision of...just a vision," she corrected herself. Laura would, heck, Caramon would've, believed her crazy if she went into what saw, she finally ended with, "So, when I woke up, I was as you see me now." Tension filled the air and silence, save for the voices of two, very tired, very drunk, dwarves. On Laura's face was a look Crysania took to be intense curiosity.

"The vision was...?" Laura prodded. Crysania opened her mouth to reply but was saved the trouble of making an excuse by a swooshing sound. Both women whirled around in time to see a merchant with a look of sheer defiance on his face go into a dead faint on the carpet, still clutching an oak staff.

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	2. White Clerics, and Black Magic

White Clerics, Black Magic

A/N: I got it in one day over par, forgive me! My excuse: I my Internet rights where withdrawn for the weekend because I got in a fight with my mother, I won the fight, …and lost all Internet privileges for a weekend. Anyway if you have so little of a life that you're still reading this, this chapter contains Tasslehoff Burrfoot, Fizban the Fabulous, Laura Majere, Crysania of the House of Tarinius, and the wonderful effable, ineffable, effanineffable, black robed mage…Raistlin! 

**By the way I changed the stories name from "Reunion" to _White Clerics, Back Magic_ "Reunion" sounded just to…just to…well…boring, stupid, and all around slap happy for me.**

Disclaimer: All of the above (save myself and my mother) belong to Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman. The word effanineffable belongs to T.S. Eliot. The plotline, idea, and rest of the story belong to me, and if you try to steal from my clutches, pass it off as yours, and/or make money by sealing it in mass production (ha, ha, ha) I'll lock you in a _extraordinarily_ boring dungeon, secured by magic, with one extremely bored kender who has taken a liking to whatever items you have on your personal. As for your house, I shall let a thousand kender have leave of it, and whatever is left I shall give to gnomes and their department of Ourstudyinthedwellingsofotherracesfarlesssuperiorthanourselvesandourstudysonhowtoinproveandrenovatethemwithlittletimemoneyorspacewithonlytheusageofsmallhousholditemsthathaveallbeenslightytamperedwithbyourselvesandoursuperiors(thegreatgnomishconsil)andweassureyouthatyouareperfectlyandcompleatlysafeforusandoursponcershavetestedthemmanytimeswithonlya68%fatalityrateandtheexplosionsyoumightormightnotofheardecoingfromourbuildinsareall(weasureyou)afigmentofyourimmgination….ext…ext…ext….

~Lady Crysania Majere

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White Clerics, Black Magic

Chapter two: Fizban the Fabulous 

By Lady Crysania Majere

Formerly known as 'Reunion' 

_._

Tas sat, huddled in a corner, weeping in misery. Goldmoon was dead, Palin wanted to kill him, and most of all the High tower of Sorcery in Wayreth was about the most boring place one could find on Krynn, including the Abyss, he thought with a snuffle. All exits were blocked (including the long chimney he had made his first escape through), and all remotely possibly interesting places were blocked off with magical barriers to, which he found with much frustration (and a couple of burnt fingers), lock picks had no effect. Topping it off he couldn't even send up a prayer to the befuddled old Fizban, who was chaos knows were. All in all he wanted to go back to his home in the inn in Solace and hide under a blanket with some of the inns' customers more interesting items. Getting up shakily he brushed off his bright blue leggings and tried furiously to scrub the tear marks from his grubby face. '_I probably look like a gully dwarf'_ he thought sullenly, pressing a hand to each of the walls at his sides to help boost him up. The walls were smooth and cold to the touch and as he rose he noted that there was a small incline on the right walls surface, curiosity overtook him, there were no flaws in the Towers of High Sorcery, at least, no flaws made on accident. For almost an hour he pushed, pried, poked, prodded, and even pinched at the small slant in the wall, now he was exhausted plus more miserable then before. Irritated and weary he balled up his small fist and slammed a punch at the wall. The ground beneath him gave, and he found himself falling down a hole, instinctively he put his hands out to either side of him but the outlet was a hair breaths to wide for his arm span. As he fell he watched in fascination as the top of the channel close to leave him plummeting at a increasing rate in the now slightly glowing tunnel but otherwise considerably darker tunnle. He thoroughly enjoyed the ride and thus was greatly saddened when he halted, suspended still in mid air. Once he got over his brief disappointment of the fact that the ride was finished he glanced at his surroundings. Large multi-colored gems the size of the kenders head were embedded into the glowing walls, with a small intake of breath he reached for the largest, a darkly colored emerald, vaguely aware that his surroundings were strangely familiar. As his small hand touched the gem however the ride started again. Up and down he went, pushed by the magic of the tunnel, much enjoying the ride he realized that such a tunnel had once lead him to find Fizban after the mage was supposedly dead, buried in a pile of chicken feathers. The kender let out a snuffle he missed the old bumbling mage/god, what ever would he do if Tas wasn't there to find his hat? 

His reverie was broken by the sensation of flying out the end of the passageway and landing on the hard cold stone of the tower. Glancing up Tas caught his breath and for only the second time in his long life Tasslehoff Burrfoot was speechless. In the direction the kender was gaping at was a large platinum portal, it's frame constructed to look like a large platinum dragon curled into a tight oval, but this is not what made our kender friend catch his breath (the portal to the Abyss had much the same features with much more color and quite a few more heads.) What made Tas catch his breath was the stooped figure of an old man clad in mousy gray robes with a lopsided dilapidated matching gray hat and a long wagging white beard who sat _inside_ the gateway muttering to himself, as the mad are wont to do. Listening carefully to his ramblings one might hear the occasional word 'fire ball' tossed into the jumble of hodge-podge words. After about a minute of the kenders stunned silence he managed to choke out one single unbelievable, life changing, world altering, adventure starting, boredom ending word.

"F…Fizban?"

!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*

_The man seemed to fall in slow motion on to the inns gleaming wooden floorboards but no matter how slow he appeared to fall Crysania still got to him after he made the muffled thunk of body hitting hard against timbers. Being still a Cleric in her actions, even though Palidines disappearance had stripped her of title, she dropped to his side on the floor in an effort to aid him. _

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_His skin was a deep bronze, the color you get from hanging out in the sun to long, he was short and stocky, wearing a milky white sleeveless shirt, and sporting dear leather jerkin. His gnarled right hand was still tightly clutching a small, thick staff of what appeared to be oak. All in all he made the distinctive impression of a semi rich merchant._

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_Instinctively she placed a hand to his forehead to check for fever, and what greeted her tentatively gentle hand made her draw back with a soft in taking of breath. An unnatural warmth pulsed from his brow, not the heat of fever but neither that of the regular human temperature. It felt like some sort of inner glow like an internal fire was burning inside him. A fire she had felt before with only one other person. The person whose face was the last she had seen before the world had gone dark on her, the person whose golden eyes shined in her deepest nightmares and most passionate dreams, whose metallic face seemed to be etched on the under side of her eyelids. _

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_She rubbed her hand hard against her clothes as if to wip the notion from her, completely shaking the thought from her mind. She was just reacting to violently from the events of the last two weeks, that and her over active, highly sensitive imagination had been let _

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_****Flashback****_

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_Rain beat down furiously against the temple walls, and lighting cracked against the midnight sky illuminating it. Reverend Daughter of Palidine Crysania could see none of this but heard the thunder and the felling of large trees so she had a good enough idea of what kind of storm they were in for and that amounted to a monstrous one. As fast as she could she provided the refugees from the storm food and blanket, while trying to fend off some of the younger would be acolytes who kept trying to convince her that she should not be doing this kind of work and that they had the situation perfectly under control. She snorted. Yeah right. Bumbling bunch, the lot of them. Turning she headed toward the storeroom for more blankets the ones she had been distributing earlier where gone now. As she rounded a corner she felt a hand on her arm._

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_"Valin," she acknowledged facing him with a smile that was more than half percent fake._

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_She heard his deep chuckling, and when his mirth had ended she felt his lips brush across hers in a quick kiss of greeting. _

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_"You never fail to surprise me Crys. How in the departured gods did you know it was me?" He questioned in his deep voice that held mock astonishment._

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_"Though you may try to walk as one not of the desert with your large and slightly clumsy feet," she replied in mockingly sweet tones, "my sensitive ears heard you coming two halls away." Truth to tell she hadn't heard Valin at all but the faint smell of roses and spice had alerted her of his presence. A scent that was just like **his** scent, a small part of her mind peeped. And that peep was like a trigger sending out more and more that had to do with **him**, some of witch would have made her blush had she allowed herself…. *Stop that!* She commanded her irritating thoughts. She shouldn't be thinking those kinds of thoughts in this situation, especially when related to **him**. *Who else?* Piped a dangerously traitorous part of her mind. With a shove she shoved the annoying thought in the back of her mind and continued to smile fakely at where she assumed Valins face to be hoping he would notice nothing was troubling her. _

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_When he spoke next she could hear the frown of worry in his voice showing he had noticed something amiss. "Are you all right Crys?" he questioned tentatively._

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_Normally she would have been happy he noticed something was wrong, at the over concern in his voice, at the liberal use of her pet name but today it just succeeded in making her annoyed. Distinctly annoyed. Quite pissed off even. *Who was he to mess around in her personal business? Just because she was blind didn't make her some fragile, glass elf maid who should be locked in a safe else she topple over and shatter into a million pieces. Nor was she some illiterate, spoiled child who must be coddled with nicknames. Know that they shared a bed occasionally didn't mean she had to become one of those royal, petite, airheads for him.* Jerking her arm away from him in disgust she snarled, "I'm fine!" and stalked away. Leaving a hurt, confused Valin in her trailing wake._

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_Once she had cooled off she began to wonder why on earth she'd felt so damn angry and even when angry why she'd said what she had to him. He was just being his normal pleasant self and she'd lashed out like he'd insulted her core being. It could, she reflected, have something to do with the god cursed acolytes and the raging storm, but after dwelling on this theory for a while she tossed it. Of late she had been distinctly disgusted or enraged by many of Valins actions for unknown reasons. She had also been thinking of **him** much more than healthy (or so she deemed.) Frowning she pondered this and before her rational mind could come up with anything the small traitorous part of her was back saying *Because you still love Raistlin, you fool!* At this she snorted. She didn't love Raistlin, him and his arrogance, his pride, his smug sneers, his self-confidence…his ingenious mind, his occasional smiles, his treatment of her as an equal, his respect for a god he would challenge in an instant, and on those few times his soft touch on her brow comforting her confused mind. She shook the thoughts from her mind, blushing slightly. No she didn't love him, she told the smug voice in the back of her head. *I love Valin.* her only back up was a strong one, a wall over which the madding little voices who told her she loved a dead person , could not penetrate. That is, till the traitor of a thing whispered something that made the walls of her own rock-solid (or so she had thought) fortification come crumbling down upon and around her stupefied head; _

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_*what if you don't?*_

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!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@

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_She was brought out of her self inflicted stupor by a small hand tugging on the corner of her long white robe. She smiled sadly tossing her head to clear it of thoughts and looked down into the general vicinity of where either child or kender was yanking at her flowing skirts._

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_"Miss's?" came the high, questioning, slightly trembling voice. *child,* she concluded, *kender would have no fear in questioning, nor in anything for that matter .*_

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_In the best grown up, self-assured, comforting voice she could muster she answered, "Child." A sniffle greeted her words. She offered a handkerchief which was taken by grubby hands. The loud blowing of a nose was heard, and in to her open hand the now faintly damp handkerchief was deposited._

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_"Thanks Miss's." came the slightly muffled voice. The tiny high voice then came again more urgently, "Miss's! Raistlin's stuck in a tree an I ca' get em down! En I don't think i'll survive, what wit da storm en' all." The minute voice ended in pleading tones and the noise of shuffling feet._

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_Crysania took a step backward, bewildered. A powerful arch magus- evil arch magus – she corrected herself, who was supposed to be dead was stuck in a tree in the middle of the worst lightning storm Krynn had know in centuries and had no way of getting down? She was more than a little confused, and apparently it showed on her face, perhaps she misunderstood the child? _

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The girl, seeing the noble lady's confusion, said in the tones of a well educated adult speaking to an ignorant child, "Well ya' see Miss's I was playing with em'…" she broke of at the startled look on Crysania's face as the Reverend Daughter herself was thinking *Raistlin…playing?!*

The girl thinking the Clerics confusion revolved around the game played continued, adding a small explanation, "We was play'n magic ya see. Pretending he was da real Raistlin…" Crysania's confusion cleared. The child must obviously have a brother or friend named after the infamous archmage, who was know in a tree unable to get down and seek cover from the storm. Needing to know the facts before trotting into the storms fray to save this namesake of Raistlin she gave the small female before her, her undivided attention. The child, seeing her audience was all ears, continued, "Raistlin…" The young girl paused and Crysania would have bet money the girl was giving her a calculating glance, "you do know who Raistlin is don't ya?"

Crysania gave a curt nod and a wry smile, "We're acquainted." Though Crysania could not see the effect of her words she guessed they had made some impression, an impression, she realized, that would not help her in finding the ware bouts of the other child. She was right. For the child's small blue eyes widened and her lips parted into what I, the writer, can only call open-mouthed astonishment.

After her amazed silence passed she became as curious and inquisitive as a kender. "**You're** 'quainted with **Him** Miss's?! 'Quainted? Not seen, or talked to or met but you knew **'im**? My Da say's e saw '**im** once. Says **e's** got skin made of solid gold an 'air that white as sun bleached bone, says you get a weird feeling when you're near **e'm**, like **e's** death or someting an lots more to. But my Da say's the strangest thing 'bout **e'm **is the eyes, all molten gold like, and in the center where those small black balls shou' be are black hourglass'! Da say's you look into those eye's en see yourself reflected in em, but you look all lifeless like, no matter 'ow much your moving or wat you waring! Says you look lifeless…and alone…." Seeing the lady's response the girl trailed off. The Clerics face, before quite white, had now gone to an unnatural pallor, the lips a light blue. The coloring of something or some one dead by a knife in the back, a sword in the gut, death by ice, or the plague, the way the girls own mother died. Her wizard hero had obviously not left pleasant memories with this lady, he seemed not to do so on the older people she met. Respecting the nobles privacy (but just barely) she changed the subject.

"Anyway, like I was saying before, we was playing magic, de other Raistlin an me, an e was stupid enough to get himself stuck in the big maple outside, would ya help me…meaning would ya get em down Miss's…?"

Crysania smiled in relief and nodded, she had been having enough confusion and difficulty with the subject of **him** as the picture constructed of not-entirely-suppressed dreams, memories, and the image supposedly sketched under her eyelids, this fresh reminder was not welcome and further discussion of the of the topic would most likely end with the younger girl throw out on her head into the storm. 

The miniature girl then grabbed her hand and led her out into the raging tempest, her guide to an inner crossroads, a life changing rut in her life's road, and event for which both women were totally unawares.

****Still in Flashback****

**E/N (end note): Yes, *sigh* we're still in the flashback but bare with me here. Robin McKinley does this all the time. *sweat drops* that's not an excuse for me though is it? Oh well, I've got camp so don't expect the next one out for a couple of weeks, I'll try to make it longer and I would of finished the flashback in this chapter but I promised I'd have it out yesterday at the latest and I'm late! Maybe I shouldn't take so much time on E/N notes, no? Anyway, for an excuse and reveiws:**

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**I want ****20 REVEIWS**** to keep going or I'll just continue to sit on my rump reading your fics. ****FOR EVERY EXTRA FIVE I'LL WRITE AN EXTRA PAGE!**** Thank You!**

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**~Lady Crysania Majere**


	3. A conversation

A/N: I got all reviews & now I'm posting. (To all who reviewed): THANKS!! Since you where kind enough to write (at least) just a sentence in the little box at the bottom of the screen you and all those unappreciative dolts who found writing a sentence beyond their mental capability will get to read chapter 3 in....White Clerics, Black Magic!!!! (You lucky ducks, you!) I want ten more reviews to keep going. (Prove your intellectual capacity beyond that of my brother and write just a sentence in the li'll box!)  
  
  
N/T/X/&/A/O/W/H/&/O/D/V: (Note to Xenogias2001 & all others who hate & or despise Valin): I shall try mightily to have Raistlin *swoons* give Valin *goes and washes hands vigorously* an arse whooping but you must keep in mind that the Raistlin we all know & love is 1. above such trivial matters & 2. at the moment has no reason to do so, for the time being *snicker* he hasn't admitted even to himself that he loves Crysania (Calling it 'lust'! Seriously, in some things that mage is as dense as his brother! *In a good and entirely lovable way of course*! (or is that a 'bad and entirely lovable way'?))   
  
  
Killing Valin by means of slow and or fast torture would mean admitting he is even in the slightest bit jealous of the vvvvvvery short almost one sided haphazardly now non-existent relationship that went on between the desert mage and Crysania. And he wouldn't want to do that...just yet (smirks evilly). After awhile though, an event might, *cough*WILL*cough* transpire that changes the situation slightly (I solemnly swear it shall not become one of those ninny stories in which Raistlin becomes a sentimental soft brained freak who bears no resemblance to the mage in the books whatsoever.)  
  
  
Disclaimer: The characters used to produce this narrative belong to Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman. The plotline, idea, and rest of the story belong to me, and if you try to steal from my clutches, pass it off as yours, and/or make money by selling it in mass production (ha, ha, ha) I'll lock you in a extraordinarily boring dungeon, secured by magic, with one extremely bored kender who has taken a liking to whatever items you have on your personal. As for your house, I shall let a thousand kender have leave of it, and whatever is left I shall give to gnomes and their department of   
Ourstudyinthedwellingsofotherracesfarlesssuperiorthanourselvesandourstudysonhowtoinproveandrenovatethemwithlittletimemoneyorspacewithonlytheusageofsmallhousholditemsthathaveallbeenslightytamperedwithbyourselvesandoursuperiors(thegreatgnomishconsil)andweassureyouthatyouareperfectlyandcompleatlysafeforusandoursponcershavetestedthemmanytimeswithonlya68%fatalityrateandtheexplosionsyoumightormightnotofheardecoingfromourbuildinsareall(weasureyou)afigmentofyourimagination....ext...ext...ext....  
  
And now on with the story...  
  
  
~Lady Crysania Majere  
  
  
  
White Clerics, Black Magic  
  
Chapter three: Falling, a Conversation and Immortality   
  
By Lady Crysania Majere  
  
  
  
**** Still Flashback****  
  
  
The tempest raged around the Reverend Daughters' slim figure, beating with intense fury at her white garments, making them to lash out behind her, giving the disquieting appearance of an avenging angle. The small girl ran ahead, miniature hand dragging Crysania forward, awkward and about in a grasp surprisingly strong for one so young and small.   
  
  
They waded through the rainstorm for what seemed hours, hours of the endless pain that came from the lashing sting of the rain and the numbing cold of it. Finally she felt the girl stop her incessant pulling of Crysania's right arm and stand quiet, waiting for the one-time Reverend Daughter to act. With some effort Crysania pried her hand free of the child's vice strong grip and extended it before her, coarse bark met inquisitive fingertips. Her probing hand felt gingerly along the tree's rough surface and then pulled back, satisfied. From the curves and knots in the wood her mind had linked her hands findings to the large maple at the far side of the courtyard. A fine tree, possessed of long thick branches, if her memory served her correctly. She called forth another picture from that dormant part of her mind and nudged the blurry image to her. The illustration was of a large brown maple, its' leaves decked out in the vibrant cherry reds, sunset oranges, and lemony yellows that festooned most trees in autumn. Years it had been since she'd actually seen the maple- seen anything for that matter - but occasionally she might be able to conjure up a picture in her mind, forming it from bit and pieces of fuzzy memories, now was one of the occasions. Taking aid from both the memories of past and touch of present she made her way to a large knot at the far side of the tree, its' placement about at her knees' height. Gingerly she placed a booted foot upon the disfigured spot, and stared at it, or rather fixed it with her blind gaze. The biting rain and a stinging chill where slowly sapping at her strength, leaving her cold and depressed. Suddenly her boot, or the spot where her senses told her, her boot was, looked oddly funny, the world seemed funny and even thoughts of him seemed strangely amusing. A laugh of hysteria bubbled inside her, coursing up her lunges, through her mouth and across- she caught it before it could escape her lips, which were slightly parted, as if anticipating the sound. She closed, and then tightened them resolutely. To give way to the laugh would be opening the floodgates of her panic, and in doing so she would lose what little determination she had left...which would result in her not climbing the maple...which would result in the child not being rescued...which might result in the child's death...which would be her fault. She had come to rescue, not murder. Heaving a sigh and checking her resolution she started up the tree.  
  
  
The rough bark remained only semi-slippery under her booted feet, even with the gallons upon gallons of water gushing over it, it retained enough of a course surface to give her boots something mildly safe to grip. Up and up she went branch after branch, ever going, never slipping, confidence building with every step. But, like pride, over confidence comes often before a fall, and as she neared the midway point, her foot slipped.  
  
  
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She fell, and fell in darkness, everything was black, her hands were outstretched. Right, groping franticly at nothing, left...caught the branch, Palidine be praised she'd caught the branch! Tears of relief streamed from useless eyes mingling with the rain as she scrambled back on to the trees' limb. Bending down to the place she'd slipped she felt moss, slick and infinitely slippery from the rain. She had been idiot, in more ways than her simple foot slip, she now realized. In her over confidence she'd shut out the sounds of the tempest, and with it all other sounds as well. Had she perhaps passed the boy? How foolish she would of looked passing the branch that held him to go higher up the maple. Her cheeks became tinged with embarrassment as she cocked her head sideways, listening for the child's cries. Twenty, thirty, forty? branches up she heard the noise. No individual words as far as she could make out, but more an indistinct yowling, like a cats. Slowly and carefully she made her way up toward the sound, feeling the bark and occasionally moss under tediously careful steps.   
  
  
It seemed as if she had been climbing forever, forever upward reaching, forever arm outstretched. She had done nothing else with her life, and nothing else mattered. So when the small, wet, furry, feline body hit her shoulder, she froze up. Another being...should she continue climbing? Why was she climbing? Why was there a cat up here? Where was here? She shook herself, and let her mind gear up again; she was looking for the boy, Raistlin, the cat was irrelevant. Again she cocked her head, listening for the pleas of help that would most likely emanate from the boy. Silence, save for the roaring of the storm. *Higher then* her mind suggested, and condescendingly her arm reached above her, met wood, grasped branch, pulled up... and the branch broke away in her hand. Her balance quivered, she teetered, and hit hard against the trunk part of the tree. A lancing pain in her back prophesied of bruises tomorrow, and the sharp pain of claws in flesh foretold many stinging ointments and scars, but to her weary body, it was worth it. Worth it because it meant she could begin descending, worth it because even a child could go no higher, worth it because the child would be on a lower branch, and worth it because soon her feet would touch dry (or rather swampy) ground.  
  
  
The descent was infinitely effortless, compared to the climb. After a few short minuets the length, power, width, and circumference of the limbs beneath her told she was more than half way down. So far the only sign of life in the storm tossed tree was herself and the gods forsaken cat. She raised her head to an angle (she seemed to be doing it a lot lately) and strained for a noise above the storm. Finally she heard it, a seemingly high-pitched murmur coming from...the ground below. Her heart sank, still no sign of the Raistlin child, just his friend below. Then it rose bubbling in anticipation. Perhaps the little girl saw him? The boy? She strained her keen hearing to make out the words; "mzsuhoudimtankuwankuhohuch,oruleedingomory..." Grabbing hold of the branch beside her she leaned out of the foliage, her feet, now barely touching the bark beneath them. Head clear of the muffling foliage the words came as clear as a bell on a spring day.   
  
  
"Miss's you found him! Oh thank you so very much! Thank you thank you! Oh, you're bleeding Miss's! Raistlin din' mean to, I swear, just lightning an thunder scar 'im so! Sorry Miss's...." The girls voice trailed off as Crysania's numb mind registered this. The cat. The thrice-blasted cat. Now that she thought of it, it made perfect sense. Which of the nimble Palanthas boys could not scramble his way down a tree, even if that tree happened to be in a lightning storm? Only a cat would get itself stuck at the top of a maple in a lightning storm...and not be able to get down. After these thoughts the actual shock hit her. She let go. Quavered. Toppled. Pin wheeled. And fell, and fell, and fell.  
  
  
A/N: I was sooooo tempted to stop here.  
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And as the Reverend daughter fell...  
Elsewhere...  
  
  
"Why?" A woman clad in blacks and dark-purple-almost-blacks from head to toe (or rather from perilously high upper hip to hazardously low upper torso) swirled the blood colored contence of a crystalline glass around with a single, perfectly manicured, milky white fingertip. Her voice came again, soft, silky, seductive, but carrying a dangerous undertone that made the word seem almost a hiss, "Why?"   
  
  
The menace in the voice seemed not to disturb the other black clad figure in the room, nor did woman's apparel (or rather lack of it.) In fact, if anything they seemed to amuse him. "Because." The tone he used for the return and answer was rather flat. Monotone, yet laced with a cutting air of power. Pitched, so the word used clearly conveyed to the listener that that was all the explanation needed and the subject was closed, few would question.  
  
  
The woman sneered, obviously not taking the hint, that or completely ignoring it. "Because?" she sneered, "Because you feel like sucking up to my brother? Because you're madly in the with that in love" she pronounced the last word with must distaste, "with that sucking-up, conniving bitch? Or is it you need her for some intimate one your experimental works and she was the best you could come up with in a short amount of time... that might comply to the task? Or perhaps..." She was cut off.  
  
  
For a second, gold eyes flashed in anger, then the calm, cold mask fell of even that. "Love?" he questioned great distain edging his voice. "I am not capable." This time with the same distain, a touch of bitterness, and a dismissive wave of the hand. He raised disturbing golden eyes to meet midnight black ones and cunningly added, "As you should well know."  
  
  
The lady across from him shrugged dismissively and changed course faster than a two-track train. Leaning forward she hissed, "Than you lust for the bitch! I would have thought..."  
  
  
Smooth words cut her off, as if he were merely finishing the sentence for her instead of playing a dangerous game of words, "You believe me capable to lust her as well? My, my, what faith you have in our little Cleric! Hasn't it been written by every mortal scribe, your own brother even, that your 'charms'" he sneered on the word, "as you would call them, exceed beyond anything in 'mortal imagination'? I had not thought you would credit any mortal to powers greater then your own, and as I am obviously not infatuated with you at the moment," he allowed himself another sneer, "you are giving the Reverend Daughter undue credit." The pale woman across from him flushed in furry at being bested at the word game, (for she knew she was) clearly not used to being forced into the no-win situation she now resided in (admit a mortal servant of her brother more lustful than she, or allow herself defeated in the word game.) Oh well, he had bested her before at the same game, that and others, so now when revenge came, it would now be doubly sweet. She let the flush of anger recede restoring her cheeks to a normal, almost hectic, rosy pink, and remained silent.   
  
  
The man across from her smirked knowingly, he'd won, again. Not that he'd doubted winning of course, but getting the better of the competitive immortal before him was sweet indeed. "So?" the question slid from his mouth calm, indifferent, with a slight shade of irritation.  
  
  
The woman in front of him sighed resignedly, and then spoke. "She to far into death already." It came out snappish and cold. At his questioning stare she continued "If you can find a way to fish her back out, you can do what ever you like with her, no questions on my part" a bit of the old leer had come back into her voice at those words and she added crisply, "Not that you could get her out, she's far to deep now, I don't even think that thrice blasted brother of mine could drag her back." She ended with a haughty air. For even if she despised her goody-goody brother, a mortal was far worse.  
  
  
The man across from her made no statement. In fact he acted as if he couldn't hear a word she said, damn him! Instead he reached out a single, slender, golden, hand and made several odd signs and motions with it, all the time mumbling words under his breath, words which she strained to hear but failed to do so. The air around the supple fingers rippled, shimmered, shook, then parted, reveling a gaping hole where bare space should preside. The hole was black, infinity so. Not a single bit of light marred the expanse of darkness, save a tiny white dot right in the very center. A few more words, a symbol drawn in air and the picture moved closer in till the watchers could clearly see the shape of a woman. She was garbed in white from head to foot, a single gold band of cord across her middle the only color upon her. Her hair was a glossy snowy color, which fell down till her thighs in waves and ringlets, her face as pale as the proverbial death. She gave the appearance of a youth rather than one aged for her face was not blemished with the wrinkles time brings and the only sign of her years, her hair and the soft expression of sorrow the careful observer might spot upon her smooth pale features, an expression that even the most time tossed youth could not wear. Had one not known otherwise they might mistake her for marble, solemn, beautiful, and terribly, terribly, cold.   
  
  
They watched for a while as she fell, perfectly upright, hands at her sides, gray eyes closed. In a single motion the man in the black robes jerked his eyes away and spoke, "You where correct," surprise tinged his voice, "She has fallen far," of course there was no way he would let her have even such a menial victory, so he persisted, "It is not beyond my powers, however, to bring her back." The woman across from him gave a mocking smile, and for the first time during their meeting she took a long slow draught from the crystalline flask, and the crimson, syrupy liquid. Looking over the top, eyes almost hidden beneath long, midnight lashes, she parted her mouth from the glass just long enough to breath a couple of words oozing in sarcasm, "If you say so." Black eyes flared, challengingly and where met by disturbing gold ones. She hadn't really voiced what she thought, or rather she had, but hadn't voiced the first and for most thing bubbling in her head. The damned girl was to far for anyone, perhaps save her father, to be brought back now. Glee coursed through her veins, the mage could and would try to save the Cleric, Chaos knows why, and she would get to see the mortal or rather one-time mortal, she thought with malice, wizard make a fool of himself. Yes, this was worth losing the word game. Putting down her wine glass, (Which contained something other than the former) she looked at the dark hole in space, and waited for the sorcerer to act.   
  
  
Gold eyes with misshapen pupils narrowed, all their concentration focused on a single point. The owner of the strange eyes considering his options again. She had fallen beyond the reach of any binding or summoning spell, even one cast and twisted by him. His calculations (unerring as they where) came up with only a few suggestions to his predicament. Either he could back down and admit defeat, something that was eliminated immediately, or...yes that spell might do nicely, after all he had been meaning to try it, and who a better subject? He would need her to have that endurance any way for what was to come, and besides, it would do nicely to send the vain goddess before him into hysterics. An arcane symbol drawn in only the air, and he began the magic.  
  
  
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She recognized the first mark (a symbol mostly for power and strength in the casting. Usually used by high-level mages, it could tear a wizard who had not the strength to hold it, to shreds.) It was typical of him to use the mark, for in the area of magic he enjoyed flaunting his power, as she occasionally flaunted...other things. The next series of words and arcane symbols traced in air where old, and powerful, they also seemed vaguely familiar, dancing at the back of her mind, yet just out of reach. In her ears she heard his voice rise, as the magic reached its crescendo. Power surged around the black mages body, lighting his golden skin with a burning fire and then go sweeping around the small white figure in the black chasm, till she glowed with an unearthly white radiance. And then... as soon as the fire had started it stopped, the black tear in space was gone, and the man shrouded in darkness was bent almost double over his ebony staff, his face wearing a strange look of triumph. And then it came to her, what the magic was, and a queer numb feeling crept over her.  
  
  
"You..." The words where cold and dry in her mouth, tasteless, as her mind was numb.  
  
  
She was cut off. And the mage gave the air where the hole had been one of his twisted smiles.  
  
  
"I made her immortal." And with that he was gone.  
  
  
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A/N/A: (Authors Note Again): So...Did ya like it? Hope so, I was going to make it longer but I decided against it. ): Ha! CLIFFHANGER!!! ^_^ . Anyway, my friend thinks it's below him to read my story. I think he's being an idiot. In your review tell my friend he's an idiot and to get his ass down on a computer chair and read my story which happens to be the best story you've ever read (Right???) and I'll post my next chapter with an extra 2 pages. That's right folks 2 pages.   
  
Thanx,  
Lady Crys  
  
P.S. Thanx for the nickname LadyLupe. ^_^  
  



	4. meeting

W/N:(Weird Note) If you have bothered to read the A/N and Disclaimer of the last chapter ignore this one completely. If you haven't read last chapters A/N and disclaimer I suggest you do so because it's far more interesting then this chapters. A/N and Disclaimer. Only difference is that I want 10 reviews now. 

**A/N: I got all reviews & now I'm posting. (To all who reviewed): THANKS!! Since you where kind enough to write (at least) _just a sentence_ in the little box at the bottom of the screen you and all those unappreciative dolts who found writing a sentence beyond their mental capability will get to read chapter 3 in…._White Clerics, Black Magic_!!!! (You lucky ducks, you!) I want ****10 more reviews to keep going. (Prove your intellectual capacity beyond that of my brother and write _just a sentence_ in the li'll box!)**

**_Italics_=thinking (in the story, you idiots)**

The use of all three font changy thingies usually is used when referring to Raistlin without saying his name such as:       He, His, or other things regarding Him 

Disclaimer: The characters used to produce this narrative belong to Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman. The plotline, idea, and rest of the story belong to me, and if you try to steal from my clutches, pass it off as yours, and/or make money by selling it in mass production (Ha. Ha. Ha.) I'll lock you in a extraordinarily boring dungeon, secured by magic, with one extremely bored kender who has taken a liking to whatever items you have on your personal. As for your house, I shall let a thousand kender have leave of it, and whatever is left I shall give to gnomes and their department of 

Ourstudyinthedwellingsofotherracesfarlesssuperiorthanourselvesandourstudysonhowtoinproveandrenovatethemwithlittletimemoneyorspacewithonlytheusageofsmallhousholditemsthathaveallbeenslightytamperedwithbyourselvesandoursuperiors (thegreatgnomishcouncil)andweassureyouthatyouareperfectlyandcompleatlysafeforusandoursponcershavetestedthemmanytimeswithonlya68%fatalityrateandtheexplosionsyoumightormightnotofheardecoingfromourbuildinsareall(weasureyou)afigmentofyourimagination…. ext…ext…ext….

**And now on with the story…**

~Lady  Crysania  Majere

**White Clerics, Black Magic** Chapter Four: Revelations, A Meeting, and the Fall of an Illusion 

By Lady Crysania Majere 

_**** Still in Flash Back****_

            She didn't know when she had stopped falling, but she obviously had, for beneath her she could feel the softness of bed sheets and her head was resting on a pillow. Opening her eye's the first thing she saw took her breath away, the ceiling was made of pure crystal, not glass, crystal, and beyond that the sky. But a sky like one she had never seen before, the rich purple that bordered almost on black was dotted with not three, not one, but five moons, not to mention unfamiliar constellations of stars. The first three of the five moons she was familiar with, ice white Solinari, blood red Lunitari, and (she could only make it out because of the mysterious lack stars in a circular area) night black (literally) Nunitari. As for the other two, they puzzled her thoroughly. One, the same size as the three well-known moons was a velvety blue. One would think that having a sky of purple as background would make it as invisible as the black moon, but strangely, it stood out as much (if not more) than Solinari. It attracted the gaze of the beholder -if she where to be the judge on how the beholder would react- yet even as it drew her, the moons dark gaze repulsed her slightly, like **him**….She shivered, and then an unbidden thought rose in the Reverend Daughters mind. What if….No. It couldn't be, **he** was dead, plain and simple. Resting in redeeming sleep if you want to put it that way, or just happen to like that version of the tale better. She was being ignorant and silly. Still….

            _'The other moon'_ she made her self think_ 'think about the other moon.'_ Slowly, and more than a bit reluctantly she forced her mind off the blue sphere in the sky and turned to the next of the strange moons, twice as large as its fellows, the site before her was the most beautiful yet most horribly revolting thing she had ever seen. Colors swirled and danced across its surface making her feel both exhilarated and queasy at the same time, and….Oh!!! Crysania had not consciously realized she had gotten up (probably to get a better view) but now she sat down hard on the freezing stone, feeling cold. She could see. Palidine be praised, she could see! Tears of wonder sparkled in gray eyes that had now lightened to a misty blue. 

            _'Stop it.'_ The voice of calm depressing reason commanded her. _'It could be a dream.' _

_'But what dream'_ She countered back, still dazedly _'could be this vivid?'_

As if in answer, colorful scenes replayed themselves inside her head, some staining her cheeks a rosy pink. 

_'I could always be dead…' _that indeed was a thought. It would explain her sight, for in Palidines' paradise, who would walk blind? 

'_But what if this wasn't that paradise?'_ Another unbidden thought. '_The gods have left and who is to say they did not take that particular afterlife with them?'_

_'It could still be a dream.'_ She reasoned, trying to suppress the fear that was bubbling up inside her. Her only answer, the replaying of some of the more vibrant pictures.

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Looking around she discovered that she was in a small house, in fact, probably one of the most beautiful houses she had ever laid eyes on. The walls, like those in the sunken temple of Palidine back in Istar, where a pure, white, snowy, marble, unflawed. Yet, they where very different from those great Istarian walls, for no small veins of blue or expensive, yet useless baubles and trinkets marred their smooth, seemingly delicate (but very much not so) surface. There where four rooms in all, she had discovered, and in most of them (or at least a good three out of four) the loveliness that positively radiated from the walls came from pure genius, and mild sense of simplicity. The small bedroom in which she had woken up was circular and had a high, domed ceiling, that was, as she had previously observed, pure crystal. Mirrors decorated the upper most part of the walls, slanted and turned, they caught the light of the moons, and bathed the floor around the bed in the middle of the room with deep blues on silver-whites, on crimson, on black, out lined in sort of a dancing rainbow that made her head spin. The other rooms consisted of a tiny bathroom; whose walls where tiled with a curious yet beautiful blue stone and in whose middle was a small fountain. The size of one of the temples birdbaths it was made of the same marble as the walls, its basin lined in mother of pearl, its water, cold and sweet, reminding Crysania of cool mountain springs. The kitchen too was small, its pure white walls contrasting oddly to the marvelously worked mahogany that served as cupboard, chairs, and table. She found the strange mixture of wood and stone oddly delightful. But it was the last room that most satisfied her knew hunger for the sights in the world around her, and perhaps…something else…. Like the bedroom, it was circular, like all the other rooms for that matter. A fire flickered and crackled merrily in a stone hearth, throwing the white walls into shadows, and the many books that sat in shelves on those walls into an even deeper darkness. Couches of rich material adorned with cushions of even richer cloths, were huddled around a table of marble and crystal, in which whose center rested a bowl of strange exotic fruits. But it was none of these things that made Crysania like this room best. In fact, she usually had a severe disliking to such flaunted wealth. But it reminded her of a room, in a tower, whose walls were obsidian black, whose shelves where also lined with books, but with either night blue or black binding. But most of all her mind wandered to the owner of such a room. Saw once again the mirror like eyes, the….

_'NO!'_ she thought viciously, slamming the thought down into the nether regions of her mind. She seriously couldn't believe herself. Even in dreams (for she was now certain this was a dream) she thought of **_him_**._ 'I will not think…'_ she couldn't bring herself to go on. Even as she commanded her insolent thoughts to be still, they threw memories at her. Memories that, even now, caused a strange pang inside her. Abruptly she turned round and left, slamming the door behind her.

Upon her reentrance to the bedroom she flung herself onto the bed, doing the perfect imitation of a sulky child. _'Why?!'_ she asked herself, scowling fiercely at the strange sky through crystal. _'Why can't I just move on?! _**He**_ found_-was granted-' she corrected herself, '_peace. Why can't I just forget….' _Pointedly ignoring the whispering, traitorous voices in the back of her head she turned her head to her pillow and tried desperately to blot out all conscious thought.

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            It was too much. Sight. Moons (one of which made her feel distinctly uneasy and another which made her feel doubly that). New. Reminders of Old. Reminders of **_him._** Tears pricked her eyes. It was _way_ too much. Too soon….In the end she let that, and everything else, overwhelm her.

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             She didn't know how long she had lain there, grappling at what she believed to be at least a part of her sanity. Finally she gave up. HE would have scorned her for such weakness. Or not. 

If it suited his needs. 

If manipulated her so as to fit into his web.

 If it trapped her.

 And it always did. 

Raistlin was most skilled that way. And yes, she now spoke his name to herself, if only in the deep recesses of her mind. For she figured what she was doing before (ignoring or trying to ignorer him) had not succeeded and that another remedy was indeed in order. Her previous method was like being in a completely white room, a room whose only color was a pink spot on the ceiling, and then trying _not_ to look at the spot. In doing so, you only kept it in your mind (the spot), focused on not focusing on it and thus always it was a center of attention in all conscious moments. On the other hand, if you continually stared at the spot it would soon get as boring as leaves on trees and you could begin to turn your mind onto more important things, like getting out of the room for example. Speaking of escape, she had noted that the rooms (lovely as they were) had no doors or windows, save for the doors used to enter, or (if the next even counted as a window she was not sure) the crystal ceiling. And, if no means was provided for escape, one could assume one was being held against ones will, and if one was being held against ones will, one should always try to find some way out of the situation. Perhaps in her shock at sight and sites she had missed them (the doors or windows). Maybe. What a strange dream this was. Sighing she got up, trying in vain to get a look at herself one of the rooms high placed mirrors. Then walked over, opened the door….

And blinked. 

@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!@!

Then blinked twice. 

A third time for good measure. 

She could have sworn…. Wasn't that?!…. Damn!….

The door that had, just a moment ago lead to the small, double door bathroom, lead there no longer. Instead, a library, greater even than the one in Palanthas stretched before her, its ceiling so lofty that even her newly gained eye sight could not pierce its shadowy heights. Cautiously she shut the door, and with equal caution she reopened it. The library stood there still, the spheres of flickering mage light (for that was all it could be) in their stands, eerily illuminating the shelves upon shelves of books, winking at her innocently as if they knew something she did not.

_'And that may very well be.'_ She grumbled to herself, _'Oh well, it's just a dream. Albeit, a very strange and vivid one. I never knew the subconscious had such a vibrant imagination.' _Still mumbling under her breath she entered the library and closed the door.

She knew at once it had been a mistake. Perhaps some long forgotten instinct awakened from dormant slumber a moment to late. Even as her hand snaked back to grab the handle, the doorknob, doorframe, and door itself, melted silently into the wall. Had she known any, she would have uttered a very foul curse. As it was….Sighing in frustration she turned from the now blank wall and headed down the isle of books.

Upon further exploration Crysania discovered that, centered in the heart of the great library was a large mahogany table complete with chairs and such. Most importantly however was the glow that shown from the numerous mage lights that were placed everywhere around the desk, creating an island of light in a sea of darkness. It was not the blackness itself that made her edgy however, for (being blind up until now) she was much accustomed to the absence of light and seemed to have a strange affinity to it. It was the silence that bothered her. That, and the shadows. For, to one blind, touch and sound are the only things that give you any idea about the world around you, and even with her new sight, old instincts are hard to suppress. In the silent dark she knew the panic would rise in her, to kill all reason. She had never feared the pairing of silence and darkness in her youth but now….

Having nothing better to do, and wishing desperately for the accursed dream to end, she grabbed a book from the nearest of the shelves, sat down in a chair and began to read.

The book was called, The Mists of Avalon and she found it fascinating. Though many parts she didn't understand, and the world in which Morgan lived was strange as were the gods they worshiped, she loved it greatly. Never, in all her time on Krynn had she ever encountered such a work. It was too preposterous, strange, and some would say blasphemous to exists. But the characters appealed to her, and Morgan's work as a priestess was enthralling, even as it so greatly differed from her own experiences. Admittedly some parts where more detailed then they out to be, but nothing you wouldn't find in a two copper piece novel. 

One other strange thing about the book was that, as she read, time made no evidence of its passing. The library stayed dark and completely silent (save for the occasional turning page of her book) for what she _knew_ had to have been at least ten hours. Finished with the first and with little else to do, she started another book, which she had nabbed from one of the shelves just within the reaches of the many mage lights.

The Fellowship of the Ring began within a world far more like her own, and with semi familiar species (though Hobbits where a complete mystery). The vague likeness to Kyrnn was disturbing but drew her more into the book. Leaning forward she read,

"But I have so little of these things! You are wise and powerful. Will you not take the Ring?"

_"No!" cried Gandalf, springing to his feet. "With the power of the Ring I should have power too great and terrible. And over me the Ring would gain a power still greater and more deadly." His eyes flashed and his face was lit as by a fire within. "Do not tempt me! For I do not wish to become like the Dark Lord himself–"_ At this point Crysania reached to turn the page, but even as she did so, a hand of a goldish hue reached over her shoulder to keep the page from turning. As if the owner of the offending limb was finishing the last few words in the sentence seconds after the Reverend Daughter. And indeed, in what seemed like three seconds the hand allowed the page to turn and Crysania to continue with her reading. Which she did. She did not need to turn around to know who it was, she just knew. And that fact that it was **_he_** hardly surprised her at all. After all, it _was_ her dream. Without slowing in her reading, missing a single word or any other such offence, she spoke.

"Greetings Raistlin."

_**** Still in Flash Back****_

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Like it? Hate it? Ha! CLIFFHANGER!!! ^_^ . Anyway, my friend 

thinks it's below him to read my story. I think he's being an idiot. In your review tell 

my friend he's an idiot and to get his ass down on a computer chair and read my story 

which happens to be the best story you've ever read (Right???). I'll be eternally great full…. It's annoying the hell out of him. ^_^ Which reminds me. Thanx to 

Tenchi-kun

Arabwel

Happy smiley person. 

Who all told my friend he was an idiot. You might want to hear that he told me to tell the you to do something I can't possibly tell you to do without dramatically increasing the rating on this story. So now you have a _reason_ to tell him he's an ass.

                Thanx,

~Lady  Crysania  Majere

OMG!!! I Can't believe I posted the other one, I'm so Sorry!! Thanx Shannon Holmes


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